


Tale in Five Parts

by sealament



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, I have a problem, Romance, Tragedy, no really, tragic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 04:19:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13674135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sealament/pseuds/sealament
Summary: "Her scent finds its way back into his lungs now, scarring the tissue, filling him up. He rediscovers its intricacies all over again and wants to forget them just as quickly. There’s no way Elektra showing up at his door can be anything but bad news."--For MattxElektra V-week, the mania prompt.





	Tale in Five Parts

**Author's Note:**

> There's no real plot to this, just... descriptions. Rehashing the show. I'm not very original.  
> Slightly divergent with the end of the Defenders (our boy does indeed die).

_Once_

            She’s hot in his veins, itching all over; a rush boiling beneath the skin when he’s with her. Not all the time, no, but most of it. Days spent thinking about how she wraps herself around him and doesn’t let go.

            Sometimes they’ll lie awake, letting the sheets whisper between them. And he can hear the city – he can always hear the city, like an afterthought animating his life – but it’s different around her. There’s a gentle lilt to its vibrations, shaped by the cadence of her voice, her laughter. She recounts the most mundane of things; he listens. Nibbles on her neck in bed as she talks about her last trip to Spain.

            Every part of him moves with her, for her, and for a while, it’s blissful.

 

_Then_

            He walks back home nearly the entire way, spilling blood on the uneven pavement. Even Foggy doesn’t know.

            His apartment is cold, as if there’s a void between himself and the furniture and walls as he moves around aimlessly. Drops on the couch, hugs the bottle. Kicks off one shoe.

            The rain hits around five in the morning. Intermittent staccato followed by a cacophony knocking incessantly on his window. Demanding to be let in. He focuses on each drop until it’s all hazy in his mind and he forgets the rhythm.

            He calls after the first week; leaves messages after the second; confronts reality after the first month. Foggy holds him.

            After a while, it’s almost alright.

 

_Later_

            When she comes back, all these years later, she gives herself away at just the right moment, shifting the pressure of the seat.

            But that’s not how he recognizes her. The memories break the thick walls he’s built for himself. They spill out in titan waves until he’s dizzy and filtering ten frames per second of the past behind unseeing eyes. But it’s not because she shifts her leg, and it’s before she even opens her sultry lips.

            _Her scent_. He inhales her, all subtle spice; the perfume it took him years to purge. Though he did once smell her shampoo on a woman during a meeting as an intern. It was bitter and heavy and he almost excused himself.

            Her scent finds its way back into his lungs now, scarring the tissue, filling him up. He rediscovers its intricacies all over again and wants to forget them just as quickly. There’s no way Elektra showing up at his door can be anything but bad news.

            But her voice is intoxicating, coaxing, words jabbing at the right places. She knows his weaknesses, despite the time and space (gradually compressing) between them. One step, two, toward him, but he stays put, anchors himself. Listens to her feet, focuses on her voice, but he feels lost, lost, heart hammering in his throat.

            But he can’t help it. He goes to her the next morning, and the night after that, despite the fights and insults and near-deaths. There’s something about Elektra he will never completely recover from, no matter how many times he tries. He knows she feels the same.

            They’re inevitable.

 

_After_

            She dies. It’s just that simple.

            He keeps it together, somehow. Everything’s somewhat bleak, a little bland. But he still has faith in God; sometimes Foggy calls him. It isn’t fair, but few things are.

            He visits her grave. It’s strangely peaceful for such a fiery person, he thinks. He lets the air brush his hair as he twirls orchids between his fingers.

            He thinks of all the places they haven’t run to. Thinks of Greek olive trees he’ll never smell.

            It feels final.

 

_Finally_

            When you’re twenty, knee-deep in your first love, it’s poetic to dream it would end so: final moments of tragedy where the world crumbles, holding the one person that seems to make it worth it all.

            He doesn’t feel that way when it happens, though.

            They’ve been here. Many times. She pushes him to the ground with incredible force; he retaliates, fist connecting with a hard body part. Blood mixes with sweat, mangles with tears. There’s heavy breathing, pants. One thumping heart.

            Mostly, he’s just tired. A part of him is content to go, and he holds onto it. Tighter than onto her.

            But each word flung or whispered, he means it. They pour out of him, every truth and confession, begging to break through to her. Like they have before, like they would again had things turned out differently. It’s a cycle, one he knows needs to break. Because no matter how many times he spins it in his head, there’s no reality where Elektra lives and Matt Murdock is happy.

            So, he embraces her. With every fibre of his being, the last of his strength he pours into his lips and tongue, tasting the salt beading on her face. Fingers twisting in her hair even as his eyelids drop. Losing all sense of time.

            Foggy’s safe, Karen’s safe. New York is safe.

            He thinks of but one moment before everything fades. One, simple moment.

            The blinds are open; probably a flash of sunlight on her face, a tender smile playing on her lips. She spins her head away from the window toward him. _Matthew_. He takes her hand in his, brushing his thumb over hers.

            It’s nothing. And yet it’s everything.

            He closes his eyes.


End file.
